


Withdrawal

by DrByron



Category: Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: Altered Mental States, Anal Sex, Belated Consent, Blackouts, Comfort, Drug Withdrawal, Hallucinations, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Scottish Character, Scottish Dialect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrByron/pseuds/DrByron
Summary: [This story takes place during the events of the movie “Trainspotting”]Mark Renton is going through drug withdrawal to get off of heroin for good. This turns out to be much harder than anticipated, and he finds himself hallucinating various unnerving things happening around him. When his best friend Franco Begbie suddenly shows up in his bed, the lines between reality and fantasy quickly start to blur. Mark craves a distraction, and Franco craves something else...[The dialogue is written in an attempt of Scottish dialect]
Relationships: Francis "Franco" Begbie/Mark "Rent Boy" Renton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Withdrawal

I was going to get off the heroin for good this time. After almost overdosing and dying from this shite, I absolutely understood why my parents quarantined me in my room to detox. Sit it out. Get over it. Suffer in silence until I was ready to face the world again, reborn, healthy, normal like. I was prepared, as much as the times before, but this time, with a wee bit of trauma added on top. Had a bucket for vomit, a bucket for shite, plenty of water, a telly. My parents regularly cleaned the buckets and brought snacks, but I rarely caught them doing it. I was phasing in and out of consciousness like I was having the worst trip of my life. Writhing and sweating in my bed, suffering just by existing. My body was trying to get rid of itself and all I could do is watch. And endure whatever fucking hallucination decided to visit me.  
  
I saw Simon sit by the end of my bed, talking about something, empty words to both encourage and ridicule me. Something to impress my parents, for some fucking reason. He ate a dry biscuit, and the deafening noise made me cover my ears.  
  
I heard something on the telly, about the new virus. I saw Tommy standing in the corner of my room, decomposing like a walking corpse. Staring at me, as if he knew I had borrowed the sex tape of him and his girlfriend, ruined his relationship, ruined his life.  
  
I saw Spud sit on my wardrobe, dressed in a cartoonish striped jailbird overall, shackles around his feet. He accusingly kicked the furniture and stared down at me, the one who got away while he got taken in. The shackles ringing loudly, so fucking loudly.  
  
I saw dead baby Dawn crawl along the ceiling, with unnaturally stiff movements, coming towards me. Just above me, she did that Exorcist thing, twisted her head around 180°, screaming like a possessed demon. With her scream, and my scream, falling, falling, falling-

* * *

I passed out. I woke up.  
  
I saw Franco lying next to me. So close I could almost feel his body heat. Fucking wild, lying in bed with the unhinged, violently homophobic Franco Begbie... my best mate... Think I just stared at him, what else could I do, talk to a hallucination?  
  
“Oi, Franco...” Alright, talk to the hallucination then, Mark.  
“Oi, Mark.” He replied, so close our shoulders almost touched.  
“Ah feel like shite.” I whined with whatever thin voice remained in my throat. I reached out to him with shaking hands, grabbing his arm. I could touch him, feel the fabric in my hand, like he was really there. He turned to his side, to face me.  
“Ah figured. Wanted tae make sure ye wir going through with it.” He said, so calm. An utterly surreal contrast to my jittery, sweaty constitution. He grabbed my wrist to hold it still.  
“Franco... Ah’m at a point where ah’m talking to hallucinations, it’s bad. I saw Simon, and Spud, and Tommy, and Baby Dawn... and you... and ah’m talking to ye...” I desperately clawed at his chest, his collar, but he didn’t seem phased by it. Not sure what I wanted to achieve with this, just some fucking physical contact. He grabbed my other wrist to hold that still do. He squeezed my hands, eyebrows drawn tight.  
“Aye, so ye do.” He said.  
“Ah feel like shite, Franco. Ah’d do anything for a last hit. Anything for a distraction. Ah’m trapped in ma own fucking body, ye kno, it’s fucking horrible.” My breathing came out in trembling spurts. Ah jis wanted a hug.  
“Ye seem a wee bit better now.”  
“Aye, ah’m no retching or shitting anymeir, but now my guts are trying to turn inside oot. It’s much worse from a psychological point of view now. Ah’m so desperate for a hit, it fucking sucks. Ah cannae begin to describe it Franco. It’s no fair... Ah’m trying to get oaf it... why am I punished for that...” It felt good to whine about this to somebody, even if that somebody was likely not even there.  
“Yir punished for taking it in the first place.” Fucking savage, that cunt. No wrong, I suppose.  
“It’s no fair... help me.. please, yir ma best mate... do something Franco...” He just looked at me without a clue what to do. Stone-faced, patient. I hud tae gieve’um instructions, if ah wanted anything done... “Ye can hit me, if ye want. Hit me in the face.”  
“No Mark, ah’m no gonna hit ye now.”  
“Fuck...” He let go of my hands and I coiled up against his chest, pressing my face into the crook of his neck. I mirrored the feeling in my guts, coiling tightly, hotly, like an iron burning me from the inside. I heaved, feeling dizzy. This Franco Begbie was a hallucination anyway, an unresponsive monotone shadow of a memory — I could try to make the best of it. I put an arm around him and hugged him desperately.  
“Mark, yir awfully close...” I felt his heartbeat against my ear. It was fastened, but nearly not as fast as my racing heroin withdrawal heart. I nuzzled my face against the warmth, coughing when I almost choked on my own spit.  
“I want ye close, Franco... as close as possible...” I whispered, seeking more physical contact with something that probably wasn’t even there. Pulled his arms around me. Entangled our legs.  
  
I passed out. I woke up.  
  
I was still in Franco’s arms, but he wasn’t wearing any clothes anymore. I was only wearing my rancid, sweaty t-shirt.  
“Ye still think ah'm a hallucination, Rents?” He whispered, gently rocking our bodies together. We were both hot, sweaty and hard.  
“....well...” I tried to find words, tested if my vocal chords were still functional. “Ah don't think the real Franco would slip intae ma bed to cuddle up... get naked... and get a raging erection. Weird fucking wet dream, mate, if ye ask me.”  
“...ah... aye... weird fucking wet dream.“  
I curiously slid my hand to his crotch and wrapped my fingers around his cock... he was so hard, throbbing... Franco flinched with the touch and I think he held his breath for a moment...  
  
And a flash of panic overcame me. It aw felt a wee bit too real. But if this was real... if I acknowledged this between us, now, he would absolutely freak out. Go rabid. Best case scenario, he’d stop and pretend it never happened, worst case scenario, he’d kill me for it. I got myself into fucking trouble with this — and I can’t even remember HOW. So I had no fucking choice. This was nothing but a hallucination, I couldn’t even consider any other option. I began to wank him off, that wet dream hallucination Franco, and I could sense he was tense about this... but not reluctant... oh fuck...  
"Ah probably won't remember any of this tomorrow..." I purred, voice weak and hoarse. "Ah'm besides myself... ye could do anything ye want with me...“  
And I think that was exactly what Franco wanted to hear.  
  
I passed out. I woke up.  
  
When he pushed his cock into me, I felt a sudden sharp pain. I was lying on my stomach and could barely look behind me.  
“What...?” I was fucking confused, to say the least. It felt too fucking real.  
The first thrusts were like daggers stabbing me in the arse, but I kind of welcomed it. My guts and stomach were killing me, and this external pain got my mind off it pretty well. And it had the potential to feel good. To turn me on. To get me a little rush of dopamine. Fuck, aye, I was hungry for this now...  
“Franco...” I wheezed quietly, testing how much I could interact with this apparition before it would dissipate.  
“Shut up, Mark... yir mum and dad are in the living room... wouldn’t want’um to hear ays...”  
“No, we wudnae...” I whispered, grabbing the pillow to hug it to my face.  
With every thrust, my body got more used to it, relaxing, easing up, becoming a fuckable hole. Didn’t take long for it to start feeling good for me, too. I had wanted to try this with a bloke for so long... to get fucked in the arse... head first into the mattress, hips up high, just getting pounded like a sex toy, single-use, throwaway...  
“Ahh, this is good... deeper...harder...more...” I shuddered, heat and ice washing over my body and dousing me in a cold, sticky sex sweat.  
“Aye, ye want it deeper? Needy for this, aren’t ye? Are ye fucking men on a regular basis like, Rent Boy?” Franco grabbed my waist, harshly pulling me into his motions. Our bodies slapped together, my arse cheeks were already burning with the friction. My entire body was on edge and way too sensitive, even breathing hurt a little.  
“Ah—!! No... I’m a fucking idiot... can’t pick up blokes... can barely pick up lassies... I’m a fucking idiot...” I mumbled into the pillow. I was overcome by a sudden feverish self-loathing, my chest heaving with sobs that came surprising and sudden. The withdrawal was driving me proper insane, fucking emotional rollercoaster ride.  
“Yir... yir no a fucking idiot, Rents.” He gasped, quiet except for a few grunts. He kept on casually fucking me, slower though. Not stopping was better, for sure, and it was like fucking medicine for my anguish.  
“No, ah mean it, ah’m an awkward piece of shite, and ah’m a junkie. Aw ah got is charm, and that I don’t have enough. Ah jis stand there and wait for someone to pick me up, ah wish I was a lass, they can do that and it’s ok... Ah get laid ONCE in the time all ay yis pick up FIVE burds.” I rambled on, like he was fucking the words out of me.  
“Yir the most charming of ays, jis quiet like. Yir sensitive, need a wee bit protection, likes. But yir picking up lassies aw the time, what are ye talking aboot.” Franco leaned down and kissed my nape and shoulders over and over — immediately giving me goosebumps.  
“Ah’m a wanker, Franco.” I just wanted him to go harder, punish me a little for being a stupid cunt. I pushed back, but he didn’t respond with more force at all, like he was making love to me.  
“Yir fucking gorgeous, Mark.” He raked his fingers over my short hair and down my spine.  
“AH’M A WANKER.” I whined. “Look at me now, I’m masturbating thinking aboot ye fucking me. Like ah’ve no better inspiration than ma best mate, who’s a raging homophobic. Weird fetish that. Ah’m jis afraid this is all there’s gonna be fir me, Franco, jis an endless cycle of withdrawal and then feeling worse without the drugs, getting on the drugs again, withdrawal, continue. Nivir getting oot of this life, nivir seeing any meir sense than I see now, and that’s absolute senselessness. Franco, that’s a fucking thankless predicament, ye kno. And aw I can think of to ease the pain is getting fucked by my homophobic best friend, just to feel anything remotely good. What a fucking wanker ah am.” I started to jerk myself, while Franco kept on rutting into me. Ah’ve probably been doing that all along, without me noticing. I mean I must’ve. Or if I wasn’t, then the vivid wet dream could make for an amazing orgasm if I just gave myself a hand.  
“Well... Yir a wee bit of a freak, I can tell you that... like ye’d do that in yir right mind... with the likes ay me...” Franco mumbled, finally picking up pace and fucking me harder.  
“Aye, exactly. Ah’m no suicidal... mhh...” I mumbled, slowly getting more lost in the sexual experience, rather than the self-pity.  
  
I felt his rough hand on the back of my head, pressing me down into the pillow. I could barely breathe like this. He was fucking me harder, like not seeing my face made it easier. He heatedly thrusted into me with his swollen cock, scratching that itch inside of me real good. He was hitting a pleasure center somewhere deep in me, some bundle of nerves, my prostrate I’d guess. And it felt fucking magnificent. I was drooling into the pillow and I was wet with sweat. I was all jittery on my knees, but tried to urge myself back against him, to get him deeper. I could hear him breathing more loudly, a raspy panting, like a wild animal in heat. It sent shivers down my spine and got me closer to the edge. My fantasy was so authentic, like, exactly how I would’ve imagined Franco to shag. But my knees started to give in and before I knew it, I collapsed under him. I was breathing heavily, feeling like I could barely move anymore. Franco forcefully turned me around and grabbed my face with one hand, looking at me with confusion and anger. I smiled apologetically, and also even more horny from his roughness. Always was a bit of a turn-on, that angry side of him. Did it look like I had tried to get away from him, what was his anger about? Ah wis jis a fucking mess, with the cold turkey n aw... I felt sick, confused and fucking horny...  
“Ah want more, Franco... ah jis cannae move. Feeling aw weak...” I tried to give him a grin but had no idea whether it came through.  
  
He averted his eyes like he was getting nervous and couldn’t look at me. I weakly reached out for his distant, stubborn face, but I couldn’t touch it. He squinted at my hand, but didn’t move to meet it. I didn’t touch any surface, didn’t feel his cheek, like I saw nothing but a ghost hovering above me.  
Franco roughly guided me into a more comfortable position lying on my side and pulled the blanket over me proper. He embraced me from behind, hands roaming up my clammy chest, shoving up my shirt. I grinded back against him, still feeling that erection pressed against me. Straining against my back. Prodding against my entrance.  
Finally, with one firm thrust, pushing in again. He was holding me so tightly, clinging to me. I could feel his heat, his heartbeat... The dopamine, the serotonin, the oxytocin... such a great natural drugs... with me coming down from the heroin, it’s not like there was anything else I could get to ease the pain. No government prescribed substitute, no ‘one last hit’, not even a fucking beer. The craving was agony. The rush from getting shagged was as good as it got.  
“Franco, fuck me till ah’m aw sober again... please... oh... just fuck me.... fuck me...”  
He was too fucking riled up to stop anyway. He was breathing into my neck, urging himself into me over and over. The room was spinning around me, even though I was lying down. I didn’t know whether I was too hot or too cold, whether the sweat was healthy or sick, and there was still a deep discomfort as the baseline of my existence. But Franco’s arms around me, and him fucking me, grounded me, in a sense. Didn’t feel like I was falling, didn’t feel like I was losing myself, didn’t feel like a decomposing corpse. Just a bit miserable, but also kind of good. Like I could wait this out, just stay here with him, until it was aw over.  
“Yir a greedy cunt...” He mumbled against my shoulder and I could feel and hear him smile. This position was so comfortable and intimate, but still so fucking arousing. It hit different, with the orgasm creeping up slowly. My whole body was tingling with every thrust. Suddenly, I could feel Franco spilling his load deep inside of me, shuddering, clinging to me almost painfully tight...  
  
I passed out. I woke up.  
  
He was lying next to me, smoking a cigarette. We were both lying under the blanket, hiding like little kids doing something naughty they aren’t allowed to, like reading porn magazines. Or hiding from something they’re scared off, like monsters under the bed. He blew the smoke into my face, and I think he was fully dressed again, or maybe he wasn’t here at all and my mind was fucking up the order of things. He couldn’t be here, fully dressed, under my covers, smoking a fucking fag like we’d just had sex.  
“Get that shite out of yir system.” He exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “If ye ever use the gear again, I’m coming to get you and I will personally nail you to your bed until you sweat it aw oot again. And ah won’t be nice that time. Ye got that? I’ll fucking beat that shite oota ye.”  
I think I nodded, but maybe I just stared at him.  
  
I passed out. I woke up.

* * *

When I returned from my comatose slumber, I felt as calm and relaxed as I haven’t in a long time. And like I was finally back in reality, sober, awake, real. I was alone, in my room, surrounded by tiny trains on patterned wallpaper. What a weird fucking fever dream. My sheets were sticky and clammy, and my body felt a dull ache all over, but I wasn’t surprised and couldn’t give a toss, really. Usually, this indescribable level of relief, this divine euphoria, was reserved for right after a hit. This sudden drop where all pain and all worries vanish. No nausea, no restlessness, no profuse sweating, no guts twisting in agony. I simply felt soft, warm, at peace. There was a satisfying heaviness in my limps, too heavy for thoughts. I knew I had overcome the worst part of this fucking process. I’d get through it and come out sober and well. That wet fever dream had been a fucking lifesaver.

* * *

When I saw Franco again at the pub a few days later, I experienced a sudden, unexpected flash of doubt. The exact feeling you get when you dream about somebody, and you know it was a dream. But when you see them you suddenly have that feeling of uncertainty... I was sure the experience I had the other day was nothing but a withdrawal hallucination, no matter how real it felt. It had felt just as real as seeing the dead baby Dawn crawling along the ceiling and falling on top of me! And THAT certainly hadn’t been real. Getting fucked by that fever dream shadow of Franco Begbie, it felt so physical, so raw, so much like I’d imagine Franco to be if we ever would… But then, at the pub, when he didn’t show any change of attitude towards me, no recognition of something monumental having happened between us, I knew it couldn’t be. No way that the violently homophobic Francis Begbie would’ve done that — and let me live to tell the tale. I decided to accept the vivid fantasy as a memory of things that could never happen, to quietly enjoy by myself in moments of need. Whenever Franco was being a bastard, or distancing himself because our friendship got a little too much to be hetero. Fuck, Franco. How can a friendship be that easy and that complicated at the same time? That memory, however, would guarantee to bring a smile to my face.  
  
“Oi, Rent Boy. Good to see ye. How are ye holding yirself?” He asked me.  
“Franco. I’m grand. Felt like shite for days but ah couldnae be better now.“  
“Good man. Proud of ye. Now stay oaf it, will ye?”  
I gave a playful shrug. “Until the next chronic pain or depressive episode, triggered by late-stage capitalism and a meaningless existence. Ken?”  
“Ah mean it, Mark. I’ll personally nail ye to yir bed if ya try that shite again.”  
I nervously squinted at him, trying to read whether this was regular Begbie banter or whether he was referring to a past conversation we actually had. Because there was this faint memory he had said something similar, right after—... He gave a dirty chuckle and playfully punched my arm, smacking it blue, for sure. No, this was my mind playing tricks, he was his regular old self and I had nothing to worry about… He had likely left me to sweat it out on my own, suffer for the sins I committed. He always got mad angry about the drugs, being the only one of us, besides Tommy, who had no addiction to substances, only to violence. No way he’d touch a filthy junkie in withdrawal sweats, a bloke to top it of.  
  
No way.  
  
“Ye could’ve visited me, Franco.” I searched his eyes for an answer.  
“Tried tae. Yir parents didnae let me see ye.” He gazed at me, blankly.  
“That so? Doesnae sound like’um. Well guess I hud tae work this oot on ma oan.“  
“Aye.”  
“Aye...”  
  
No way.


End file.
